


A Watch of Nightingales

by bearfeathers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-11-02 04:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20623775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have averted the apocalypse (sort of) and bucked Heaven and Hell off their backs (for now). Smooth seas may have never made a skilled sailor, but after a fight and the arrival of two unexpected visitors, the two find themselves a little more seasick than they'd bargained for.





	1. home is...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/gifts).

"I bought a cottage."

Aziraphale blurts it out while sitting on a bench in St. James Park, midday, on a Tuesday. Crowley, who had been in the midst of discussing Adam Young's personal tweaks to the world, stops short. He lifts an eyebrow curiously, leaning back to give the angel and appraising look.

"...alright?" he answers slowly, clearly not understanding what this has to do with anything but amused all the same.

"Not... not recently," Aziraphale says, wringing his hands and staring out at the rippling surface of the pond. "Quite some time ago, actually. I just... It was something of a... It was a safe way for me to indulge in a, ah... well, a fantasy."

A sly grin stretches across Crowley's angular face. "We talking about fantasies now, Angel?"

The angel blows out a harsh breath, half-annoyed, half-overwhelmingly anxious. He'd really planned on waiting another five years or so to figure out precisely what he wished to say and how he wished to say it. But for whatever reason, the words had just come tumbling out of him and now he knows he can't stop. 

He loves Crowley.

_Has_ loved him for ages upon ages. It's just that before now, it had been too dangerous. How many times had he rebuked the demon's apparent advances, fearing what could happen to him should Aziraphale accept? 

There had been a nightmare. Aziraphale has never been prone to sleep, though, at one point, he'd been rather forced into it sometime in the 1950s after overexerting himself. He still recalls quite vividly one of the only nightmares he's had in all of his existence. Crowley, reduced to a pile of smoldering ash by the Almighty herself, all because Aziraphale had the gall to love him. They don't need to breathe, but in his terror, he'd forgotten, waking in a sweating, gasping panic. Crowley had been there, then—summoned by Aziraphale's own will it had seemed—calming him, talking him down, easing his troubled mind until he could return to sleep unbothered, never speaking aloud what he'd seen.

That doesn't mean he's forgotten. If anything, it feels as though the images have only grown stronger with time. There are moments when his mind wanders, and he swears he can nearly smell the ash—sharp and cloying, robbing him of air he doesn't need until he finds himself choking on something which isn't there. He'd considered the repercussions over and over throughout his life, but something about that nightmare had made it all the more real.

And so he couldn't. Which means he had pushed away time and again, though never for too long, eventually finding himself drawn back as though shepherded by unseen forces. So afraid of what might befall Crowley and yet unable to separate himself completely, unable to sever what tied them together.

Selfish. 

Cowardly. 

Pathetic.

Aziraphale is all these things and more. Yet he still reaches for something he himself had driven away countless times, driven by the ferocious beating of a heart too weak to do what he knows he should.

"There were times when... when I was unhappy o-or feeling low, and I would just picture the cottage or go to it if I could," Aziraphale says, his mouth painfully dry. "And I would picture... I would think of... Well, us. In it. Together. You see, it was something I couldn't have, and so this was... a safe way to have part of it—just a small part. Even if it weren't real. And I suppose it was a rather silly thing to do but I just could never bear to part with it."

Crowley watches him silently, his expression having shifted from faint amusement into something unreadable, his eyes shielded by his glasses. When he says nothing, Aziraphale takes it as a sign to proceed.

"I know you have tried before with me. Many times. And I've... I've not been particularly kind in acknowledging that," Aziraphale admits, twisting his fingers until it truly begins to hurt. 

Oh, he wants this. He truly, truly does. Wants it so desperately for both of them, wants to give Crowley the world and more. 

"To go away, I mean," Aziraphale says. "Have a—a bit of a holiday together. I know you've asked before, but I thought perhaps now we might be able to. If you wish to, that is."

...but he _can't_.

Not when they're only safe _for now_. Not when he can't be absolute in his surety that this won't come back to harm the demon.

Crowley's expression remains carefully neutral, the crestfallen look passing so quickly over his countenance that you would have to be inhuman to catch it. And the thing is, Aziraphale is just that. There's a familiar pressure in his chest as Crowley grins and turns his gaze back to the ducks.

"Sure, Angel. Whatever you like."

* * *

That had been three months ago. Crowley had agreed to a trip to this cottage of Aziraphale's—the number of things he would deny his Angel amounts to a very small list. Part of him had just been curious. Aziraphale had seemed so flustered when he'd said it that for a moment Crowley had thought...

But no, no. Of course, he couldn't. _Wouldn't_. Not even now after they've struck out on their own. He was never _going_ to, and the Almost End of the World wouldn't change that. Hadn't changed it, in fact.

Crowley is fine with this.

He is.

He _must_ be.

To have Aziraphale with him, even as friends and nothing more, is far better than the alternative. The brief span of time he'd been without him when the book shop had burned down, that had been... arguably the worst moment of his very long life. No, he'd gladly take this over that. He shouldn't dwell on it, shouldn't torture himself with thoughts of "maybe" and "what if" but if Crowley's good at anything, it's torturing himself needlessly.

It's only made worse by the cottage. Located in the South Downs, Crowley had expected it to be very much decorated and furnished in Aziraphale's typical style; namely horrifyingly clashing, outdated patterns. Yet when he stepped through the door, he'd found himself to be only half right. Exactly half right, apparently.

Aziraphale's style is present in the tartan wallpaper of the sitting room, one of the armchairs looking soft and worn to his liking. The other armchair, however, is... well, Crowley would hesitate to label it chic but it certainly is more to his tastes. Much like the coffee table, which is sleek and modern. The kitchen, too, seems to be fitted with an off combination of new and old; the stove a stainless steel wonder, the curtains in the windows a soft lace. 

Crowley's room is styled dark, much like his flat. A framed Queen poster on the wall, the bed plush and silky in a minimalist frame. There's none of Aziraphale's trace in here, the space clearly meant to be his and his alone. Something about that made his gut churn painfully, though it eases somewhat as he finds himself drawn to a small offering on his nightstand. An aloe plant, in a pot bearing that familiar, ridiculous tartan pattern with a bow wrapped 'round it to boot.

"I wasn't sure if it would be to your liking. Any of this, I mean. I can change it if it's not," Aziraphale had said.

It hadn't escaped Crowley's notice that the angel had hovered just outside the door to the room. He remains half-hidden behind the door frame, hands clasped anxiously and eyes following his every move, as though quietly hoping for his approval. When Crowley had assured him it was fine, he had seemed to relax.

"There's a, ah—a small greenhouse 'round the back," Aziraphale had told him. "It's yours. I mean, _for_ you. I mean, I thought you might like it ever since I saw your... collection back in London."

Crowley has spent a good part of these past three months in that greenhouse. It's a lot of work getting a little garden set up, doing it by hand. He's always preferred it that way, working with his hands when it comes to his plants. Today, though, is no day for gardening. Rain comes down in sheets, hammering the roof and windows of the quaint little cottage and keeping both of them inside for the foreseeable future.

Frankly, Crowley doesn't mind all that much. The atmosphere in the sitting room is... cozy. Relaxed. He could see himself dropping off for a quick nap if he weren't so preoccupied with watching Aziraphale. The angel is settled deep in his armchair, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, and a book held open between his hands. Clad in a comfortable jumper, he sits with his socked feet tucked under him, staring at the page before him. It's the most relaxed Crowley can say he's ever seen the angel. But something _must_ be on his mind, considering he's been staring at the same page for the past two hours.

"Crowley?"

The demon hums curiously, seeing that the angel hasn't lifted his gaze from his book.

"Are you... happy here?" Aziraphale asks.

Admittedly, Crowley's caught a bit off guard by the question. Is he happy here? He scratches his chin, glancing up at the ceiling as he thinks.

"What, as opposed to London, you mean?" Crowley asks, trying to clarify.

"Yes. Or... well... Just in general, I suppose," Aziraphale says, not seeming entirely sure himself.

"Nnnnnyeah, I suppose I am," Crowley hums.

"And is there anything that would make you happier here?" Aziraphale asks. "Anything you want?"

His words are slow and methodic, as though he has to very carefully remind himself of what to say. It might sound like an innocent enough question to the casual observer, but to Crowley it feels as though the angel is prodding at an open wound with a stick.

"... let's not do this, Angel," Crowley says with careful calm. "You don't want me to answer that."

Aziraphale closes his book slowly, marking his place and putting it aside. He steals glances at Crowley, his eyes mostly focused on his hands clasped in his lap.

"Perhaps I don't," Aziraphale admits.

There, Crowley thinks. Told you so.

"Perhaps I'm the one who should be answering for something," the angel murmurs.

A spark of anger flares up inside him, bringing with it a familiar, aching burn and the taste of bile rising up the back of his throat. So this is how they're going to do this?

"Maybe," Crowley says. "But we both know you'd rather I do the dirty work for you."

The statement comes across a touch more biting than Crowley may have intended. Aziraphale's head snaps up, his gaze finding Crowley as his eyes go wide and round. A flush rises to his face before he quickly looks away again, clasping his hands so tightly that Crowley can see the white of his knuckles.

"I..." Aziraphale says, pausing. He has something to say, that much is obvious, but predictably he seems to think better of parting with his thoughts. "... nevermind."

Crowley could let it go here. He could let it go and sleep off his irritation, let the spark burn itself out and wait for a new day. It's just that Crowley has become ever so good at shooting himself in the foot that he nearly can't help himself.

"That's what I thought," he mutters.

And apparently that's _just_ enough to push Aziraphale from self-pity to anger.

"Just say it then," Aziraphale says darkly. "Just say you're not happy."

If they had just let it go, if they had just said goodnight... But no, it was never going to be that easy. 

"Of course I'm fucking not," Crowley spits. "How would you feel being strung along and baited for six millennia?"

Aziraphale's lips draw into a thin, angry line. His nostrils flare and his eyes crackle with something far from the warmth one might usually find there.

"Is that how you see it?" he asks stiffly.

"How else should I see it?" Crowley asks, throwing his hands up, his agitation pushing him to nearly leap from his chair. "When have I not made myself _abundantly_ clear? When have I not done everything I could to make this work for you?"

"Oh, for—Have you ever once considered that perhaps there's more to this than just how _you_ feel?" Aziraphale fires back. "Always so sure that _you're_ the one who's right and tripping over yourself to play the victim."

Crowley barks a humorless laugh at that. "_Me_ the victim? Take a look in the mirror, Angel! You want to talk about someone with a victim complex, start with yourself."

They're both going too far, Crowley knows this. He can see the tears welling up in Aziraphale's eyes—he's an angry crier, something he's always been self-conscious about, something few people other than Crowley know—but he's too intent on biting down until he can taste blood to care.

"Oh, don't start with the tears," Crowley says mockingly.

"That's it, I'm done," Aziraphale announces, pushing himself up from his chair. "I've had enough."

Crowley grabs him by the wrist, bringing him to a halt. "You don't get to just walk away. Not again."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, the threat in his voice louder than the thunder overhead. "Let go of me. Right now."

"Or what?" Crowley challenges him. 

"Just... let go of me," Aziraphale repeats.

And Crowley does. Physically, at least. Aziraphale pulls away but doesn't continue out of the room as he'd intended to. Crowley is... tired. Tired of wondering, tired of hoping, tired of up and down and back and forth, over and over and over again.

"You could just say it," Crowley says with a sigh. "You could say _something_."

"I was trying to," Aziraphale answers waspishly.

"That's the problem, Aziraphale," Crowley says, ignoring his tone. "You always _try_ and never _do_. Look, I can take rejection; I've gotten rather good at it, actually. But it's this... this _game_ that I can't stand. I've had enough. It's your turn to do the dirty work, I've done more than my share."

Aziraphale has always had a painfully expressive face. More than once it's worked against him. But the benefit of this is that Crowley usually never has to guess what it is he's thinking—his expression spells it all out. In this instance, however, Crowley finds himself at something of a loss. He sees too many conflicting things; pity, anger, sadness, relief, resignation... He doesn't know quite what to make of it.

"Do you really think that's what this is to me? A game?" Aziraphale asks softly.

Crowley has to peel his tongue off the roof of his mouth to reply. "Nnn—Ngk—Look, maybe calling it a game was a bit harsh—_maybe_—but it's... well, it's a bit much, isn't it? Nearly 6,000 years of this?"

"Yes. It is. And I _am_ sorry for that," Aziraphale says. He looks as tired as Crowley feels, eyes lowered to the floor as he speaks. "But you're not... I mean you don't... You don't understand, Crowley, it's not nearly so simple as you think it is. There's just so much... so many things..."

He watches the angel's hands move anxiously, watches the way he squeezes and wrings them so forcefully that he knows it must be painful. And watching this, Crowley finds his earlier bloodlust diminished, finds himself reaching out to pull the angel's hands apart from each other. They're both hurt, in their own ways. He doesn't need to add any physical pain on top of it.

"It's alright. You can say it. You don't have to worry yourself about hurting my feelings or... whatever it is you're worried about," Crowley says. He gently squeezes his wrists for emphasis, but cannot draw the angel's gaze to meet his own. "Just say it and we can clear the air and go back to how things always were. No hard feelings."

Well... Not really, anyway. Crowley can't say he won't still ache for something that might have been, but at least this way he can try to move beyond it. He can stop hoping. He can focus on their friendship and not the something more he's always longed for. But apparently Aziraphale can't even give him that much. The angel shakes his head.

"Oh, my dear, you're so sure of the answer you'll get, aren't you?" Aziraphale wonders, his voice decidedly waterlogged. "You're always so sure. It's... It's one of the things I like about you, actually, just... in this case it's... Have I really treated you so poorly that you can't imagine my answer would be anything else?"

It's not a rhetorical question, Crowley realizes. Aziraphale is truly asking. 

"Wh—Nnn—You—Ye..." Crowley trips over his words, leaving them in a heap of jumbled syllables at the angel's feet. He barks a surprised, anxious laugh. "You're confusing me here, Angel. How am I supposed to answer that?"

Aziraphale draws a deep breath, letting it settle before daring to look him in the eye. "Crowley, I—"

They both jump at the sound of a firm, polite knocking at the front door. For a moment, they simply stare, still too caught up in the moment to properly process what that sound _means_. Who on Earth would be visiting them unannounced all the way out here? The sun has gone down by now, making it an odd hour for visitors. Not that they were expecting any.

"Oh, bugger this," Crowley grumps, stalking towards the door.

He nearly rips it off its hinges as he tears it open, squinting at the figure standing before him on the welcome mat. They don't even get a word out before Crowley has slammed the door shut, latching it for good measure as he hurries back over to Aziraphale. The angel had taken the opportunity to dry his eyes on his sleeve and now looks to him with confusion dominating his expressive features.

"Crowley, who—?"

"Angel, listen," Crowley says quickly. "We have to go. _Now_. I can explain later, but trust me when I say—"

There's a crack like thunder and Crowley's nose is overwhelmed by the scent of sulfur mingling with ozone. He shoves Aziraphale behind him, bristling at the sight of the two figures who've appeared in the middle of their sitting room.

"Now, now, Crowley, that's no way to treat a guest, is it?"

Crowley may not know precisely why they're here, but he does know what it means: they're _fucked_.


	2. ...wherever i'm with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley's strange visitors come bearing bad news.

"Now, now, Crowley, that's no way to treat a guest, is it?"

The two people now standing in the middle of the cottage's sitting room—who are positively soaking the rug with rainwater—are strangers to Aziraphale. Though apparently not to Crowley. Certain people's opinions aside, Aziraphale is not an idiot and even if he doesn't know _who_ these two are, he can tell quite plainly just _what_ they are. 

And the fact that he has an unknown angel and demon in his sitting room sets his stomach churning.

"Heizer," one of them says to the other, tugging on the sleeve of the woman who had spoken first. "We are dripping _all over_ their rug."

The first woman makes an annoyed sound at the back of her throat, but sees to the mess with a snap of her fingers, drying the rug along with herself and her companion. This first woman, she's the demon then. She's of an athletic build, Aziraphale can see, her simple black suit and tie fitting her like a glove. Her dark hair is short and wavy, parted at the side, and whatever color her eyes may be is a mystery, as they're hidden behind dark sunglasses. There is _something_ familiar about her, but he's having difficulty placing it at the moment...

Conversely, her companion seems quite the opposite. Her comfortable looking jumper is a bright baby blue beneath a cheerful yellow raincoat. The apples of her cheeks are plump and freckled and round nicely as she smiles at them in a way that would hardly imply they'd just broken into someone's home. Her deep grey eyes are warm and inviting, sparkling with a kind of excitement that Aziraphale is perplexed by. 

"I'm so sorry to arrive unannounced," this second woman declares. "But it's a dreadfully important matter and I thought you should wish to know at the earliest opportunity."

"Here on business, then, are we, Heizer?" Crowley asks.

There's a certain stiffness to his words, a wariness that Aziraphale isn't used to hearing. The first woman—Heizer, why does that ring a bell?—shrugs her shoulders and angles her face to glance at Crowley over her shades. Her eyes are a startling blue-green, her dark pupils slitted like those of a cat. 

"A bit of business," Heizer answers. "Bit of a courtesy call."

"Courtesy," Crowley echoes, the word leaving him in a near-laugh. 

"Ah, yes, ehm—Mr. Crowley," the second woman interjects, fidgeting in place and clutching a clipboard she seems to have pulled from somewhere within her coat. "I understand you likely wish to be alone—I mean, of course you do, you're all the way out here, aren't you? Not that I think you're hiding. I wasn't implying that."

"Excuse me," Aziraphale says, speaking up for the first time since they'd arrived. "But could you tell me exactly who you are and what you're doing here?"

It sounds far calmer than Aziraphale feels at the moment. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows precisely why these two are here. As a matter of happenstance, it's directly related to the argument he and Crowley had been having just prior to their arrival.

"Don't tell me you don't remember me," Heizer says, her grin toothy and faintly amused. "Whitechapel? 1880's?"

"Oh," Aziraphale murmurs, struck by a sudden realization. "_Oh_."

He can hardly believe he'd forgotten. It's true they've met, though he could count the number of those meetings on one hand. The most recent had been in the late nineteenth century, while Crowley had been... otherwise preoccupied. Aziraphale didn't make a habit of finding demons to talk to, but this one had seemed to find him. She was a curious thing, with the same sort of casually predatory air that Crowley seemed to possess, and a distinct lack of desire to turn him to a pile of ash in a blaze of hellfire. Even still, there had been something... colder about her than Crowley. Something unsettling, but only just so.

"Well, ah... It's... Hello again," Aziraphale says, clearing his throat.

He can't exactly say _good to see you_ when it's not exactly good to see her. Heizer waves a hand towards her companion.

"This is Azephyr," she says.

The second woman straightens her posture, tugging on the hem of her jumper. "Yes! That's me! Member of the Divine Choir and Seventh Trumpet."

"And a big _fan_ of yours," Heizer tacks on smoothly.

"No!" Azephyr squeaks, cheeks reddening. "Well, not... I'm—I mean it's—I've just always wanted to meet you, you see. I, um... rather admire you, the way many of us do. But I'm sure you know all about that. I mean, with the way the younger ones go on Up There about how cool you are, I suppose it would be impossible to ignore."

"... I'm _what_ now?" Aziraphale squawks. He shakes his head. "No, wait—nevermind that, _why are you here_?"

Azephyr stares at him unblinkingly, smile still in place. "Oh, to monitor you!"

"Monitor?" Crowley echoes, jumping back into the conversation.

"Per Beelzebub and _Gabriel_, we're to monitor the two of you and report back to our respective superiors," Heizer clarifies, her bored tone implying she'd rather be doing quite literally anything else. "Azephyr thought it would be the... _nice_ thing to do by coming here to introduce ourselves and let you know." 

"Well, that and I also have paperwork," Azephyr mumbles, frowning down at her clipboard.

"So you just decided to be... _nice_, then," Crowley asks, sounding as though he finds this all highly suspect.

"Like I said: wasn't my idea," Heizer answers with a shrug.

"It just seemed the polite thing to do," Azephyr says. "Spying on you without your knowledge seemed... well, _im_polite."

"Yeah, I'm not buying it," Crowley snorts. "We're supposed to believe you two have been assigned to spy on us and you decided—of your own accord—that you'll just pop over to the South Downs and extend the olive branch. I've never seen a more obvious set up in my life. And remember, I've seen _Hastur_ work."

"It's not a set up!" Azephyr blurts, seemingly growing anxious as the meeting goes in a direction she had undoubtedly not planned. "I just thought it was rather harsh, all of this."

Crowley doesn't look convinced and Aziraphale can't particularly say he's feeling it either. But he is feeling _something_. He just can't put his finger on it... Azephyr apparently hasn't finished pleading her case and Aziraphale can only stand back with raised eyebrows as she lapses into a steady ramble.

"In fact, actually, you see, I think you may have been right, you know... in the whole, ehm... the Great Plan not necessarily being the Ineffable Plan thing. For one thing, I can tell you the divine choir was nowhere near ready. Now, it's not my place to be pointing any fingers, but the second sopranos were hardly pulling their weight and Fourth Trumpet has been sounding a little flat these past three centuries. And-And could you imagine? Armageddon and the angelic choir is just... just... just _alright_?" She laughs anxiously. "You can't have an _alright_ divine choir for the end of the world. And the trumpets...! No. No, no, so... Ah... I will be doing my job and monitoring you—but!—I'm... Well, I'm not entirely inflexible, I mean everyone deserves second chances after all, so... But I'm not soft either! No. Absolutely not. So just... don't... make me write a bad report. Um... please."

Ah.

_That_ feeling.

Aziraphale finds himself pressing a hand to his chest without having realized he'd done so. It's been such a long time since he'd felt it from another angel that he couldn't quite recognize it for what it was for a moment. Such an abundant sense of love, carefree in a way that he hasn't felt from anyone since before the War. It's odd, though not unwelcome, he decides as he feels a ball of warmth settling in his chest. 

It feels different when the source is an angel and not a human, and he wonders briefly if perhaps he isn't just reading the room wrong. Azephyr seems earnest enough, but Aziraphale has learned the hard way that this may not necessarily mean anything. Not to mention that she seems very familiar with Heizer who is... well, something else entirely.

"Well, I've heard enough," Crowley declares. "So I think it's about time you saw yourselves out."

"Oh. I did have some intake paperwork to—... well, I suppose it could wait," Azephyr mumbles to herself. She once again reaches to tug on her companion's sleeve. "Heizer, we ought to take our leave now."

"Suit yourself," Heizer says.

Just prior to departing, Azephyr leaves Heizer's side for the first time since they'd arrived. She hands a small business card to both Crowley and Aziraphale, flashing them another bright smile. 

"There's a number to reach me by as well as the address of my records shop," she informs them. "And on the reverse, you will find a number which you can call for any questions, comments or complaints as to my job performance."

Aziraphale has several complaints, but likely none which could be addressed by anyone answering this number. He's a tad startled to find the card in Crowley's hand has burst into flame, the cardstock reduced to ash in a matter of moments. Crowley turns his palm, dumping the ashes on the floor without comment. Azephyr oddly doesn't seem especially put out by this display and fishes through her pockets.

"Not to worry, I have plenty more," she assures them happily, handing Crowley another card.

Crowley accepts it and it quickly goes the way of the first, his flat stare never moving from the angel in front of him. She drums her fingers together anxiously.

"Or, well, I suppose, um... You probably don't need two anyway, do you? You could just ask Aziraphale if you needed to... reach out," Azephyr says quickly. She clears her throat, hand thrust out and smile in place once more. "In any case, it was lovely meeting both of you."

Crowley doesn't reach for her hand. Aziraphale finds his typical sense of politeness overridden by several strong emotions which he is struggling to keep at bay. The silence in the cottage stretches on, until Azephyr, at last, seems to realize she isn't getting the parting handshake she had expected. Reeling her hand back in, she steps back several paces until she is at Heizer's side, her fingertips moving rhythmically against each other all the while.

"Ah. Well, we... we ought to be going then," she says, her cheery demeanor seemingly undeterred.

"Crowley," Heizer says, and something in the way she says his name strikes Aziraphale as intimately familiar. "I'll be in touch."

With a snap of the demon's fingers, their two visitors disappear and Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves alone in their cottage once more. Neither of them move. They stand rooted to the spot, the sound of the storm beating against the roof and windows the only thing to be heard. Until Crowley decides otherwise.

_ **"FUCK!!"** _

Aziraphale startles at his shout. 

** _"Fuck fuck shit bugger fuck!!"_ **

"Crowley," Aziraphale cuts in sharply. "Enough. Please."

"I'm sorry, did you not catch any of what they said?" Crowley says, throwing an arm out to gesture at the empty space their guests had recently occupied. 

"I _caught_ every word of it, Crowley," Aziraphale says stiffly. His limbs refuse to cooperate. He finds he cannot move from where he's stood, no more than a tree can move from the path of an approaching logger. "Your shouting is giving me a headache."

Crowley looks as though he would like very much to snap at Aziraphale, but pauses and seems to think better of it, for he says nothing. Instead, he makes the few short steps back to his chair and drops himself down until he's seated with his elbows resting on his knees. His shoulders rise and fall with the weight of a sigh that Aziraphale can see, but not hear.

"Come sit down, Angel," Crowley says, his voice rough.

Aziraphale would if he could. But as it stands, he can't seem to find the strength to move nor the control to stop the sudden tremors running through his vessel. He's afraid. He's so afraid.

They'll destroy Crowley. They will. And it will be all his fault. Crowley will suffer for all of Aziraphale's faults, his weaknesses, for his transgressions. He'll cease to be. They're not like humans; there is no eternal life when they're killed. Truly killed and not just discorporated. They're snuffed out like candles, the lingering smoke the only sign they were ever there before that, too, fades into nothing.

"Angel, please don't argue for the sake of—"

He wonders what he must look like for Crowley to have stopped to stare at him so. The demon doesn't press him further. He rises from the chair he'd sat in not a moment prior, stopping when he's within arm's reach of Aziraphale. A snap of his fingers brings a dark handkerchief to his hand, which he immediately holds out. Aziraphale blinks dumbly as he accepts it, slowly realizing just why it's been offered.

He's crying. _Again_.

With a soft, annoyed sound, the angel dabs at his eyes, heaving a heavy sigh as he does so. 

"Aziraphale."

Whenever Crowley uses his name, it always draws Aziraphale's attention, but at this moment fails to bring the usual pleasant fluttering in his stomach which accompanies it.

"We can figure this out," Crowley says. "We did it before, we can do it again."

"I'm a fool," Aziraphale says, staring at the dark handkerchief in his hands.

"Well, sometimes, yeah, but..." Crowley says. "You're clever. Cleverest person I know."

"No, I... I've just been..." Aziraphale sighs. "It's all of this. This is why I couldn't ever say it, couldn't act on it."

When he glances up, he can see Crowley's eyebrows have drawn into a deep frown. 

"I love you," Aziraphale says softly.

This isn't the hard part. Though his heart is filled fit to burst with everything he's ever felt for the demon, it aches that this is how those words have finally been said. It's not how he'd imagined it, not how he wished for it to be. Crowley stares at him slack-jawed, as though he hasn't quite heard him right.

"I _have_ loved you. For so long," Aziraphale continues, the knot in his chest winding itself tighter and tighter. "But if Heaven ever realized that, they would have destroyed you. It was never a question—sooner or later it would be discovered. I thought if I could just keep it to myself, if no one ever were to know, then I... I might be able to protect you. But if I were to have told you how I truly felt, if I had tried to act on it in any way..."

Aziraphale's mouth goes dry at the thought, his tongue feeling as though it's withered to the root and curled back down his throat. He has to work for several long moments to find his voice again, but Crowley gives it to him. He stands silent before the angel, slitted pupils having dilated to the point that they're nearly round within his golden eyes.

"I couldn't bear it. I thought it was better to keep you safe and never say a word than it was to risk... to risk..." Aziraphale finds he can't quite get the words out. His eyes sting. He feels too warm. He can't hold Crowley's gaze any longer. "You must understand, it was—you don't know how hard it was just—just... creating that thermos of holy water for you. And now it's... What's the point of it all? I've been so careful, held so much back because of what it could do to you and now we're both going to be destroyed anyway. There has been _no point_ to anything I have done. I have wounded you _countless_ times because it seemed the better option of the two, but I wasn't protecting you. I _can't_ protect you and I was a fool to think I ever could. I'm so sorry, Crowley. I've ruined everything and I'm so, _so_ sorry, I..."

He chokes on the sob that's been trying to climb up his throat for the past fifteen minutes. Why is it that everything he does ends so poorly? He knows the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but why can't his good intentions ever just stay good? It startles both of them, perhaps, when he drops to his knees, his palms smacking against the floor. But it seems his vessel has no intentions of moving under its own power and now no intentions of remaining upright.

"I j—... I just wanted you to stay," Aziraphale hiccups miserably. "I can't be here without you, Crowley. I need you to be here. I need you alive and—and with me, or... or else I just _can't_. I don't want to exist in a place where you don't. I don't want you to be—for them to destroy you because of me. That's all I... It's all I was trying to do and now..."

They'll be destroyed. That's all that can possibly come from this observation they're to be under. Whatever anger Aziraphale may have had from their prior argument is gone now; chased away by a sudden cloud of fear. His hands curl into fists against the floor as the weight of the things he's put Crowley through descends upon him. He was so certain he'd been doing the right thing. He'd tried so hard. He rests his forehead against the hardwood, bent double like a penitent at prayer. It doesn't matter what he says now, there's nothing he can do to make this right.

"Say it again."

Aziraphale had expected a hundred different responses from Crowley—none of them happy—but this hadn't been among them. Fingers alight on the back of his head, resting there gently, just for a moment, encouraging him to raise his head. When he does, he finds Crowley has joined him on the floor. The demon doesn't appear angry. He doesn't seem hurt in the ways Aziraphale would have expected him to be. He doesn't look disgusted with him. He looks... hopeful.

"If you really mean it," Crowley says, "then say it again. _Please_. I need to hear it again."

The demon's voice cracks, his eyes searching Aziraphale's face for affirmation. He seems vulnerable in a way that Aziraphale can't say he's seen before. The dull ache in the angel's chest has grown to become a sharp pain; he'd done this. He's responsible for dragging Crowley's heart across the metaphorical coals for centuries. All because he was a coward, too afraid to say what Crowley had always been ready to. The irony is that here he'd been ready—or as ready as he could be—to tell him the truth, only to be slapped in the face by the arrival of their unexpected guests. Despite that, Crowley is looking at him as though none of that had happened, as though he were prepared to throw away all the bitterness and hurt if only Aziraphale would say he loved him.

"My dear, my darling Crowley... Of course I love you. I will _always_ love you," Aziraphale says, his voice quivering. "But you can't tell me that—"

"Shut up," Crowley cuts him off. He reaches out, seeming to hesitate before pressing the palm of his hand to Aziraphale's cheek. His skin is cool and clammy. He hangs his head. "Just... That's all I need."

"But Crowley," Aziraphale protests, "that's... I mean, it can't be that simple."

"Why can't it?" Crowley asks, not bothering to look up. "Why shouldn't it?" 

"But you must be upset," Aziraphale says, reaching up to grasp the hand pressed against his cheek. "You must be angry."

"I was," Crowley admits, lifting his head to look Aziraphale in the eye again. "But it's all just so... stupid. Stupid to be angry. If you're willing to say it now, I'm not going to waste time being angry over something pointless."

Aziraphale is left feeling profoundly stupid. And confused. And tired. It seems that he's been working towards this moment for so long, prepared himself for everything, and it all was taken care of in a matter of moments. 

"You were trying to do what you thought was best," Crowley says, filling the gap that the angel's silence has left. "Maybe I wish you'd've talked to me, told me that's what you were afraid of. But it's... Look, I can't pretend you were afraid of nothing. We've just been moving at different speeds, is all."

"But how could you still want this, want me, after everything?" Aziraphale wonders.

It's only now that he realizes Crowley has steadily been moving closer as their faces are within inches of each other. 

"You're the only thing I've ever wanted."

Everything he's seeing, everything he's hearing, tells him Crowley's words are true. But doubt wriggles deep down within him like a worm in an apple. That doubt that's always been there. Why would _he_ want _you_? What do you have to offer someone like him? What have you ever given him? 

"I just didn't know if..." Crowley cuts himself off, sucks sharply on his teeth. His gaze cuts away and he pulls back, putting more space between them, as though he's having second thoughts. Or perhaps feeling some of the same doubts that Aziraphale does. "Do you really want me? You're not just saying it because... I don't know, angels being all full of... of _that_?"

Of love.

It seems to be so difficult for him to say it. And ironically the easiest part of this conversation for Aziraphale.

But does Aziraphale _want_ him? It's such a simple question and yet it still manages to feel like a loaded gun pressed to his heart. Aziraphale hardly knows where to begin.

"Of course I do," Aziraphale says, hearing the wonder in his own voice as though someone else had reached into his mouth and put it there. "I've wanted you like... like the earth wants for rain. I've wanted to kiss you as the seas have kissed the shore. I've—... are you _laughing_?"

"Sorry, sorry, no, uh..." Crowley apologizes with a huff of laughter. He scratches the back of his head. "'s just you make it all sound so grand, the way you talk. I'm not... I don't really know how to dress it up in pretty words. All sounds rather boring from me."

Aziraphale frowns just so, watching him carefully. "You're shaking."

"Am I? That's inconvenient," Crowley remarks.

The angel reaches out, taking the demon's hands in both of his own. He presses them together, presses the warmth from his palms into the slender, artful hands he now holds in his own.

"Are we going to try... this?" Aziraphale asks. "Because I want to, if you wish to."

"...I think we are? Yeah?" Crowley says, appearing still a bit shocked at the words coming from his own mouth. "Because I want to."

"Good. Good. That's... Well, that's settled then," Aziraphale says, very business-like, as though the two of them haven't just broken through nearly 6,000 years of mutual longing. "We'll give it a go."

Crowley snorts a laugh, even as Aziraphale feels him trembling still. They are a pair, aren't they? 

"We should return to London," Aziraphale says suddenly. He blushes at Crowley's questioning look. "Those two... They're not going to leave us be and, well, I... I don't want them coming here again."

Not this place. The angel doesn't want them setting foot again in this place he had made for himself and Crowley alone. This place that he had hidden so carefully, that he had put together piece by piece. Crowley dips his head in a brief nod, seeming to understand his implication.

"We'll leave in the morning, then," Crowley declares.

"Not now?" Aziraphale questions.

"I don't know about you, but frankly after all this, I'd rather not pile into the Bentley to drive through a storm in the middle of the night all the way back to London," Crowley reasons. "Could also use a nap, honestly."

Aziraphale frowns. He's actually feeling a bit tired out himself. Perhaps Crowley's right. Perhaps it would be best to strike out in the morning after they've had time to process... well, everything.

"Alright," he says. "We'll leave in the morning."

Crowley, seeming to decide that's settled the matter, rises to his feet and holds out a hand to help the angel up onto his. They stand there for a moment, Crowley still holding Aziraphale's hand in his own, neither of them seeming to know quite what to say or do.

"Would you maybe want to sleep with me?"

The moment Crowley asks the question, Aziraphale knows his face must have moved along the shader from "pleasantly flushed" to "your neighbor's prized tomatoes." The demon reacts instantly, dropping Aziraphale's hand and holding both of his up defensively.

"That's not—ngk—I'm—_No_," Crowley says, tripping over himself to get the words out. "I just mean sleep. Not anything else. I know you don't usually go in for that sort of thing—sleeping, I mean—but I just thought I'd ask. If you wanted. It's not a big deal if you don't, just offering."

"Oh," Aziraphale answers, feeling himself relax marginally. "That would... I suppose that would be alright. Wouldn't it?"

Crowley shrugs one shoulder in an apparent attempt to appear as though he is anything but entirely invested in this. "Yeah, I s'pose. If you're alright with it."

If he's being honest, even that much is making Aziraphale's heart beat just a little too quickly, though it technically needn't beat at all. The thought of them having... _relations_ is something he had considered, but it's all a bit out of his realm of understanding. Well, rather he _understands_ what sex is and how it goes from a theoretical standpoint, but his practical application is non-existent. He had made an Effort on one occasion out of sheer curiosity but found he couldn't quite _make it go_, exactly. He'd very quickly grown bored and decided reshelving his entire west wing to be vastly more entertaining.

But this is all before they'd even so much as kissed. Aziraphale had never kissed anyone, actually. Not apart from doing so in greeting when it was customary. Certainly never romantically. Is Crowley waiting for him to take the initiative? He had been the one to tell Crowley he went too fast. Had that put him off? Is he worried about scaring Aziraphale away? 

"Aziraphale."

His name again. He looks up, blinking rapidly, finding Crowley gazing at him with a slightly wary expression.

"Alright?" the demon asks. "You sort of blanked for a moment."

"Yes," Aziraphale says, clearing his throat. "Ah... sorry. Just... Just tired, I think."

Crowley nods, eyes darting away as his tongue briefly makes an appearance to wet his lips. "I'm going to just head to my room, then. If you'd like to join me, you can. And if not, no pressure. We can take things as slowly as you need to. Alright?"

Relief and gratitude and guilt make for very disagreeable bedfellows, Aziraphale finds. "...I'm sorry."

"Angel, _enough_," Crowley says, squeezing the hand he still holds in his own. "Just stop overthinking it all. I'm... Look, I was prepared to wait an eternity for you to say how you felt. I'm not going to be scared off by you needing time to get comfortable."

Aziraphale feels incredibly dull as he blinks slowly in the dim light of the cottage. What had he done to deserve this, he wonders? To deserve someone like Crowley? He can't help but feel woefully undeserving of the kind of devotion Crowley has offered him for millennia, but neither can he find it in him to push him away any longer. He may not deserve Crowley, but Lord does he want him. Oh, how he's wanted him. Of course, he's too selfish to let go.

He wishes there was a way he could show Crowley how much he means to him. How hard it had been to keep him at arm's length, even if it had outwardly seemed easy. The number of times he'd nearly caved and given in to his wants and desires, the love that felt as though it had been tearing him apart from the inside.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath.

"Crowley," he asks, sounding far calmer than he feels, "may I kiss you?"

Crowley looks as though he'd stuck a fork in an electrical socket. But to his credit, he manages to school his features rather well all the same; save for his eyes, the pupils of which have grown so round that Aziraphale can barely see any gold at all.

"Yeah," Crowley says with some amazement, never taking his eyes off him. "Yeah, sure."

Aziraphale shifts forward to close what little space there had been between them, lifting his hands to frame the demon's face. He traces the sharp, artful lines of his cheekbones, taking in the awestruck look which Crowley now pins him with. Aziraphale had imagined this before but finds his imagination had been dreadfully lacking. Crowley's lips are soft, warm and welcoming as Aziraphale leans in to kiss him; far better than anything he could have imagined, and he'd imagined quite a lot. Even the simple press of their lips together sends a shiver racing up the back of his neck and draws a muffled groan from Crowley. He presses his lips to Crowley's again and again and again, chasing the feeling, pausing only when he feels the need to check-in.

"Is this, ah... Is this alright?" he asks uncertainly.

Rather than answer, Crowley's hands find their way to his jumper, gripping the fabric tightly and reeling Aziraphale in towards him. The demon's hands wander, one sliding to the small of his back while the other reaches up to cup the nape of his neck as Crowley kisses him back insistently. Aziraphale's hands slip from the demon's face as he moves to wrap his arms around his shoulders instead. He hadn't even been aware they'd been moving until he feels his back hit the wall as Crowley presses him up against it.

Crowley nibbles at his lower lip, teasing until the angel's lips part for him. Aziraphale had never found this particular activity to be all that attractive from an observational standpoint, but in practice, he can certainly see its merits. Crowley's tongue slides against his own, the demon's moan tumbling into his mouth along with it, and for the second time that night Aziraphale is feeling weak in the knees—though now for a markedly different reason. 

A soft, disappointed whimper leaves him as Crowley draws back, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Not too fast?" Crowley asks, sounding as breathless as Aziraphale feels.

"N-No," Aziraphale stutters, turning his head to brush his lips against Crowley's once more. "No, this is... this is perfect."

He's surprised when a yawn punctuates his sentence, drawing a chuckle from Crowley. Strange. He's not usually prone to this kind of exhaustion. Not prone to sleep the way Crowley is. Then again, it's been the kind of day that would make anyone feel a bit weary, he supposes.

"Yeah, I'm tired, too," Crowley agrees. "We should call it a night."

The demon pulls away reluctantly, separating them as he glances in the direction of his own bedroom, pointedly avoiding Aziraphale's gaze. Before he has a chance to walk away, Aziraphale reaches out, taking hold of Crowley's hand. Crowley had left his options open, giving him an out if he needed it, if his nerves got the better of him. But Aziraphale finds he's tired of this, tired of always being afraid. Tired of holding them both back with that fear.

"Let's go to bed, then," he says.

Crowley's face goes on a journey through more emotions than Aziraphale can place, before settling on a look of tentative hope, his face flush with color. When he nods in understanding, the two of them make the short journey down the hall to his room, the door clicking shut quietly behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet my babies, [Heizer](https://66.media.tumblr.com/24532fb0c5f8225dc2abeae38842c525/tumblr_pk1rx8FHts1r5zq6ao2_500.gif) and [Azephyr](https://www.instagram.com/p/BuiS_ppHmJY/?igshid=jwtumuxefok0). You'll be seeing more of them as the fic progresses.
> 
> I know that update took forever. I've, uh... been dealing with some shit lol. This chapter didn't come out as well as I would have liked, but hopefully I'll be able to get back into my writing a little more.


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